


Just Keep Your Eyes On Me

by Werelibrarian



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, F/F, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6618979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werelibrarian/pseuds/Werelibrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fics from my Milestone AU Fest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Highschool Teacher AU

**Author's Note:**

> More where this came from on [tumblr](http://werelibrarian.tumblr.com)

Gwen sits the new guy down after school and tells him the sitch.

"Ok. Ms. Page teaches History. Mr. Murdock teaches Law. Mr Nelson. teaches English. We've been keeping track of it for years, so you can tell us what you think you saw, but you can't tell us you know for sure--cuz you don't."

Gwen moves the toothpick from one corner of her mouth to the other. She doesn't actually have anything in her teeth, but really, the situation called for it. If only they had those metal bleachers like in Grease, or like a prison yard. They're sitting cross-legged on their coats under an elm tree and that's just like, anti-gangster.

"We're about 80 percent certain that Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson are dating or have dated. Mr. Murdock was hanging around Ms. Page all last semester but Mr. Nelson still drove him home most days. My guy in the marching band tells me that out of the twelve home games last year, Ms. Page and Mr. Nelson sat together for ten of them. For obvious reasons, Mr. Murdock doesn't watch a lot of football, but he was there for this year's pep rally and he sat between them. So when you come up to me and ask, 'What's with those three' you gotta understand exactly what I'm running here."

The new guy nods.

"Let me introduce you to my associates. Kamala and Bruno are my eyes on Murdock--they're in his debate club. This is Cindy Moon. She's in three of Nelson's advanced English classes. That's Kate Bishop, she's in AP History, and she also lives like two blocks away from Ms. Page."

"What?" Gwen sort of loves the new guy’s freaked out face. Exactly the kind of 'oh god what did I get myself into' face someone should have when the're suddenly put in front of a Godfather (Godmother?) and her organization. Principal Fury probably gets this face all the time. Probably keeps him young. "You have a--a _spy ring_ watching your teachers?"

"There's not a lot else to do after school," mumbles Bruno, "and after a few years, the question sort of gets under your skin."

"I think it's a little weird that it's three of them, but I can't figure out which had the dirty idea first," adds Kate, lying back and twirling a leaf between her fingers. "It's not Mr. Nelson–he’s too innocent. I'll bet the other two dragged him into it."

"Dunno, Kate," admonishes Gwen, "you remember when Mr. Murdock ripped Flash a new one for badgering America Chavez for a date?"

"Before or after I broke Flash’s tooth?" asks Kate darkly.

"Both. It was a two-parter. Ms. Page got in on the action too. What I’m saying is," Gwen gestures expansively, "I don’t think they'd do that if Mr. Nelson wasn't into it."

"Whatever. I think Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson are ex-bfs or they probably fooled around a million years ago in college, but I think it's Murdock and Page." Kate says, like that's that.

"But they're so cute!” croons Kamala. "You didn't see them that time in the foods lab. Ms. Page had made this--I don't know, it was in a pan--and I heard her say it was her grandmother's recipe. Both Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock had, ooh, stars in their eyes."

"Mr. Murdock can't have stars in his eyes", argues Bruno.

"Trust me, he can!" Kamala's actually clawing at her face in something that looks like rapture. Cindy reaches over to gently detach her hands and gives her head a friendly scratch.

The new guy looks at them funny. "What do you think?" he asks Cindy.

Cindy peers up into the tree. "I started out thinking it was Ms. Page and Mr. Nelson. They're always in and out of each other's classrooms and I know he invited her out for drinks once. But I did hear Mr. Nelson call Mr. Murdock 'Matty baby'." Kate sticks her tongue out and Kamala swoons. "And they do hold hands around school a lot."

"Objection!" cries Bruno. "He holds his elbow! To get around! By that logic, Mr. Murdock's dating Mr. Castle and Vice-principal Romanoff and and…and me!"

Gwen checks with the four other sets of eyes, like 'that was weird, right'?

"Bruno?" she nudges him.

“Is anyone at all worried we're being super creepy about this?" he rubs his face.

"Why? We're just talking about it. It's not like we're not following them home or anything. Anymore." If possible, the new guy's eyes widen even further. "And we want them to be happy, don't we?" Nods all around. "We just want to know exactly what it is that makes them happy!"

Bruno drops his face into his hands. Kamala pats his shoulder.

"Now, new guy. Tell us what you saw."

The new guy--Peter--he looks at Gwen, Kamala and Bruno, Cindy, and Kate in turn. His eyes are huge, like he's a middle-school puppy instead of a twelfth-grader imported from Brooklyn.

"Spit it out, new guy," says Kate, her sunglasses tipped down in a bored angle.

Peter's voice goes up at the end, like he's actually asking a question. "They're all wearing wedding rings today. **"**

Gwen nearly swallows her toothpick.


	2. Kidfic AU

Cissy Teng works the breakfast rush at Junior's diner. It's a good shift. She comes in at five AM, works the rush and gets to catch her breath around ten. Lunch rush starts pretty reliably at half past eleven and she's done by one in the afternoon. It's repeatable, predictable. No matter who comes in, no matter what sort of "I'll have an eggless omelette please" tomfoolery her customers get up to, she sets her days by the chime of the bell on the door.

Saturdays can be a bit of a wildcard, but today it's just the normal bunch of locals, a few perky tourists looking for authentic New York fare, truck drivers and students. By noon, Cissy's on her third cup of coffee and still yawning. The Ranganathan baby has colic, and Hell's Kitchen walls are thin. But Cissy remembers Mrs. Ranganathan collapsed in the corridor bleeding from between her legs, so as loud as that little fu--darling--screams, everyone in the building is glad he's here to keep them awake.

_Ding ding_

A huge, built, brown-eyed man walks in. He's got two extremely cute kids with him, and Cissy grins in spite of her exhaustion. They look about eight.

"Come on, up you go-" he lifts up the roly-poly boy into the booth, then the little blonde girl-pixie. He sits on the outside.

"Karen, don't touch that."

The little girl’s reaching over the boy towards the Open sign."But!"

"It's a neon sign, sweetie. Don't touch it."

Karen sits down with a thump. The boy frowns at her thundery face and offers up a piece of string. A game of Cat's Cradle makes Karen smile again.

Just as Cissy's bundled up some menus for them, the guy waves at another man who’s just stepped into the diner. This one's green--eyed, a little less massive but still built. He’s got two kids too--a little boy hefted against his hip and a little girl holding his hand.

"Hey, Frank."

"Jack."

Jack slides in first and watches the boy with the sunglasses and the black birds-nest on his head climb up. The last kid's south-east Asian, as far as Cissy's radar goes, and she climbs over the boy to sit in the middle of the bench.

"Hi Foggy!" the dark haired one says, once he's free of the girl's elbows and knees.

"Hi Matty!" Foggy reaches along the length of the table and taps his knuckles on the linoleum. Matt extends his hand towards Foggy--almost knocking over a sugar jar--and makes a fist. Foggy bumps it. Their smiles are brighter than the sun streaming between the skyscrapers.

Cissy picks up three more menus and the coffee pot. She's so glad they sat in her section.

"Morning, folks. How are we today?" she asks, pouring coffee. She gets a flash of four sets of pearly white teeth. The two men already have their faces buried in their coffee cups.

"Alright, here are your--" Frank and Jack hold out their cups again. She plops a plasticized menu in front of each kid and does the refills.

There's a slightly strained silence from the kids.

"Ah. Thank you," the dark haired boy says. "Yeah, no, I'm good. I'll just read this."

Cissy takes in the dark glasses, the way his hands run over the edges of the card, and _dies inside._ "I'm so sorry. Just a sec, honey. I’ll be right back."

In the kitchen, Cissy hops around in an infuriated circle, kicking herself on behalf of her entire family tree, but she's smiling when she comes out with a braille menu.

She stops short because Frank and Jack are grinning down at the kids, softly, the way dads do. The two blonde kids are trading off reading menu selections to Matt, including the hackneyed descriptions. The black-haired girl is offering commentary on each one, mostly with regards to what her tastes are.

"Elektra," Matt huffs, "I like hashbrowns. You don't have to eat them if I order them _for me_."

When she gets back to the table, she squats down to eye level with the kids.

"It sounds like your friends have read it to you, but if you want to read it for yourself, here's a braille menu. I'm real sorry about not bring you one earlier."She slides the menu under his hands.

"What do you say, Matt?" Jack asks. 

"Thank you. And I'm not mad, honest."

"He does that to everyone," Foggy pipes up, "because he's a doof. But thank you for the braille menu."

"Alright, now, have the rest of you decided?" She whips out her order pad.

While their order is being cooked, she watches them from the coffee station. The little dark-haired boy--Matt--reaches across the table and has a thumb-war with the blond boy. The blond girl and Elektra go the bathroom together and come out with french braided pigtails. When they get back, the two boys are both sitting next to Jack, sharing a set of headphones.

Frank and Jack chat about boring grown up stuff--Cissy's much more interested in what the kids say. When she gets back with the food, she's heard enough to know all their names.

"Strawberry pancakes for Karen. Blueberry pancakes for Foggy. Spanish omelette for Elektra. Eggs, bacon and hash browns for Matt. And two complete breakfasts for the Jack and Frank. How's that look, folks?"

"I don’t know but I can listen to it for you," says Matt, deadpan. Thankfully, the rest of the kids and Jack laugh. Frank's mouth twitches a little. Cissy hits herself in the forehead with her order pad and ruffles his hair.

"Eat up, honey. It's a long way to Vaudeville."


	3. Professor/Student AU

Once upon a time Foggy Nelson defended a serial killer. He'd lost, of course. But he had made sure that his client was treated as a human and not a monster, even though Foggy sweated through his shirt every time they had a conversation, and had to call his mom afterwards.

He'd rather sit with that client again than be alone in a room with Matt Murdock.

No, he's lying. He's really really lying. Matt is--delightful, and clever, and makes him laugh at things he never thought he'd laugh at, and is going to be a damn fine lawyer some day, if Foggy can just get him to temper his appeals to emotion with a little more evidentiary rigour.

And let's face it, the boy is beautiful.

Foggy tries very hard to talk to him just like any other his students, all of whom are clever, hardworking, and attractive. And his _students_. They may be in their twenties but they're still his students. But Matt--he's lean and strong under those skinny jeans and soft button-up shirts, and his hair's never tidy, and he tilts his head towards the sound of Foggy's voice like he's leaning in for a kiss and it's a fucking trial not to reciprocate. And even though Matt can't see him one way or another, Foggy tries not to stare at his mouth, which always looks like he's been kissing someone seconds before he knocks on Foggy's door.

Which, speaking of-- "It's open!"

Matt sticks his head in the door. "Hi sir, you're here late." He's smiling. He really should be in pictures, Foggy thinks.

"Just finishing up. Come in, Matt."

Uncharacteristically, Matt hovers by the door of Foggy's office instead of settling himself into one of the chairs.

"Everything ok?" Foggy asks, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah. Yes. I just needed to check something with you."

Foggy tosses his glasses on the desk and swivels his chair to face Matt. "Sure. What's up?"

Matt leans his cane on the wall next to the door, which he bumps shut with a hip check. He takes off his glasses and lays them on top of a filing cabinet. Foggy's never seen his eyes before. They're deep brown and startlingly clear, and even though they're pointed completely away from Foggy, he feels pinned by that dark gaze.

Biting his lip, Matt starts to unbutton his shirt. Foggy's eyes go wide. As he stares, Matt reveals a smooth, defined torso that makes Foggy's hands itch to touch. Unbidden, he has a flash of dragging his fingers over the cut of Matt's abs, thumbing his nipples-- all the while Matt's head lolls back on Foggy's shoulder and his spit-shiny red mouth begs to be fucked harder. Foggy's heart starts pounding.

Matt's face isn't unsure anymore--it's _triumphant_. Foggy clears his throat.

"Unless someone wrote on you at a party and you want me to tell you what it says," he says firmly, "you're going to button that shirt."

But Matt has his head cocked, like he does when he's listening, and instead of  bundling himself up, he stalks forward and perches on the edge of Foggy's desk. When he leans down, his open shirt falls off his shoulder, and the way the muscles of his bicep move under his skin is the stuff of poetry.

"I think you want the opposite of that, actually."

"What I want, is for you to get your ass off my desk." Foggy prays to every god and the blind lady justice that the wobble in his voice isn't as bad as it sounds. That voice couldn't argue a parking ticket.

"Where would you like my ass, sir? Here?" Matt scoots closer, and Foggy rolls his chair back. "Or here?" Matt grabs his shoulder and climbs into his lap.

Something in the back of Foggy's brain starts screaming like a kettle. Matt's so warm, and there's so much smooth skin. His fingers find Foggy's cheek, and to his everlasting shame, Foggy leans up into the touch, feeling Matt's lips and his breath ghost over his face in tantalizingly soft, grazing touches.

"You have to know that I've wanted you. This can't be a surprise."

It's not. Not really. It's not something he has admired in his colleagues, dating students. But Foggy's one of the youngest members of faculty, and even though he's portly and nerdy and wears bowties, every now and again one or another student will seek him out, smile shyly, and hang on to his every word. He's never actually been tempted before. But none of them had straddled him before.

"Matt," he breathes the name against its owner's lips. "Matt, I'm your teacher."

"I know, sir," Matt nuzzles at him some more, "there's a lot you can teach me, I think."

Oh Sweet Jesus, he thinks. Not a single court in the land. Foggy flattens a hand over Matt's smooth, flushed chest, and holds Matt's head still for a kiss.

The sound Matt makes when Foggy licks past his lips, he wants to keep forever. It's broken, and hungry, and ecstatic. It's the sound of someone finally getting something they've wanted after so long, and it sends heat arcing right between Foggy's legs.

Matt kisses aggressively, which is no surprise, and he moans like he's dying when Foggy holds him by the hair and licks deep into his mouth, which is.

'Do you like that?"

"Oh, yes," Matt's eyes are hooded, and he reaches for Foggy's collar. "Is this a bow-tie?"

"It is. Why?"

"No reason." Matt presses a grin to Foggy's temple. "You know, you have a very youthful voice for an octogenarian, Professor Nelson."

"Don't be a brat, Mr. Murdock." Foggy sounds more pleading than authoritative and Matt's grin only grows as he pulls the bow-tie apart and uses the tails to draw Foggy into a long, luscious kiss. This time, Foggy melts into it.

It's an amazing kiss. It's a take no prisoners kiss. It's the kind of kiss you see in the movies and your heart squeezes in longing for that sort of passion.

Panting, Matt pulls back, and oh, Foggy wants this all the days of his life--Matt flushed and breathing heavily, his face full of emotion and arousal.

"Come home with me." Matt's voice is shattered, his fingers ticking over Foggy's shirt nervously.

"What?" Matt's erection digs into Foggy's stomach, and he can probably feel the answering bulge in Foggy's slacks. But Foggy's still surprised Matt wants that. 

"I want you in my bed, sir. As soon as you're ready." His face is earnest, a little bit shy, but determined, and Foggy falls all the way in love.

Foggy sweeps his hands along Matt's back, stroking little circles that raise goosebumps and and make him shiver.

"How about tomorrow?" Matt's face lights up and he dives in for another kiss. "But I want to take you out first," Foggy mumbles around Matt's tongue.

Matt laughs, and it's better than anything Foggy's ever tasted. "You can take me to The Dead Poet."

Foggy eyeballs him. "A campus bar? Really?"

Matt's grin goes soft and intimate, and he kisses Foggy again. "Alright. You pick, sir."

"Stop calling me sir."

"Yes sir. Franklin."

"Foggy. My friends call me Foggy."

Matt's dark, sensual smile could spark tinder. "And what do your lovers call you?"

Foggy shakes his head, laughing, and pulls his beautiful boy down for a kiss. "We'll find out tomorrow night, I guess."


	4. Pretty Woman AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-explicit prostitution.

Foggy Nelson paced the corridor of the Ritz-Carlton Central Park, unbuttoning and buttoning his jacket.

In Foggy's penthouse suite, Matt--no last name--was putting on a tuxedo for the first time. Karen, the bell-hop that seemed to work in a different part of the hotel each day, was in there helping him with the bowtie and the shirt studs and whatnot. Foggy smoothed down his own shirtfront for the six thousandth time, hoping the action would also smooth out the butterflies in his stomach.

Matt. Intriguing, spunky, _delicious_ Matt.

Foggy had gotten completely turned around looking for Central Park and had found him working a patch of sidewalk on 39th street. Stalled in front of a line of loitering men and women, Foggy's car--a loaner from Hogarth Chao and Benowitz Acquisitions meant to impress him--made an angry sound.

"You lookin' for a date?" Foggy looked up from his fritzing gearshift into big brown eyes smudged with smokey black makeup. The man leaning on the passenger side door wore a pork pie hat over his dark floppy hair and if his words hadn't given him away, the arch of his spine as he lounged in the window screamed street-walker. He was young, probably just short of Foggy's age, and he was blind.

"Uh, no. I'm looking for second gear."

"Look harder, honey. I heard you grinding all the way since Bryant Park." The guy reached in, cupped his hand around Foggy's on the gearshift and pushed it into second. He wore a tiny white tank under a blue and white striped shirt, his sleeves pushed up around sculpted biceps. His top was so tight and thin Foggy could see--even by streetlight--he had pierced nipples. Foggy coughed and tried to unfasten his stare from the sweet-looking crinkles at the corner of the street-walker's eyes and the dirty tilt of his smile.

"That'll be ten bucks," the guy said.

Foggy snorted, amused. "Thanks for the help, but I don't think so."

The hustler smiled, brighter than Times Square. "You know what I think? We're on 7th avenue. I think that by the time you get to 10th, you're going to turn right, circle round and drive past me again."

Foggy smirked at him. "I think I won't, but who should I ask for?"

"Matt. Don't worry, though. I'll hear you coming." Matt winked and popped the brim of his hat before straightening up and leaning on his cane. "See you in a bit, honey."

Foggy had made a right turn on 8th.

The penthouse door clicked open, and Karen, in her grey uniform and white gloves, stepped out. "Mr. Matthew will be right out, sir. I'll be waiting in the elevator when you're ready."

"Thank you, Karen." She nodded politely and slipped past him. She smelled like the orange and cinnamon soap that the hotel put in the bathroom. Matt had probably soaked in the tub while getting ready, like he did every night this past week of their arrangement.

"I've never had a bath in a tub this big," he'd crowed, and pulled a freshly-showered Foggy in with him, towel and all, "Or this luxurious. I'm not going to waste it."

After the disastrous dinner with Elena Cardenas, whose company Foggy was about to buy and who glared at him with a disappointed-nana stare that was both undeserved and presumptuous, Matt had found him in the hotel lounge, pounding out his frustrations on the Steinway. He'd tiptoed down in nothing but a hotel robe and tiny black boxers. He'd smelled of oranges and cinnamon then too, when Foggy opened Matt's robe and pushed him gently against the lid of the piano. Matt's heels struck cacophonous chords on the keyboard as Foggy tugged his underwear down and stepped between his spread thighs.

The door clicked open again, and Foggy startled out of his reverie.

The custom tailored tuxedo gave Matt an extra inch in posture and ten extra years of sophistication. Foggy'd arranged for his curly hipster fore-lock to be trimmed and now his hair lay smoothly, tidily, across his brow. He looked like the kind of man whose handsome face and self-assured stance sold Swiss chronometers in fashion magazines, instead of selling tail in skin-tight jeans. He was spellbinding, and Foggy felt his own face split in a heartfelt grin.

Matt smiled, a little bit shy. "Do I look ok?"

Foggy circled him, but hummed to let Matt know he liked what he saw. "Almost. Something's missing."

Matt's smile wavered. "I put on everything you bought me. Karen checked."

Foggy ran his hand over Matt's shoulder, comfortingly. His heart gave a bump in his chest when it actually worked and Matt relaxed. "I've got it here. It's a gift I want to give you."

The hinge of the box creaked as Foggy opened it, and Matt ran his fingers over the pair of dark glasses inside. "You said you wanted to choose who got to see your eyes."

"Foggy..." Matt's tone was wondering. "I can't. They feel expensive."

"They are, but I'd like you to have them anyway. May I put them on you?" Matt nodded, and Foggy slipped the red-lensed glasses onto the bridge of Matt's nose.

"How do I look?"

"Like you could run the world." Foggy's fingers trailed over Matt's ears and down his neck. "Shall we go?" Matt nodded.

Karen's jaw dropped when the elevator doors opened and Foggy felt a surge of pride. They stepped in.

"Ground floor, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening."

Instead of unfolding his cane, Matt took Foggy's arm as they walked. Bellhops and desk agents nudged each other and stared, admiring smiles on each one of their faces.

Claire, the hotel manager, gazed at Matt like he was an angel gliding through her lobby and nodded at Foggy. Foggy nodded back, happy at her approval but also feeling like she was charging him with some important task.

"I can hear people whispering," Matt said.

"They're all looking at you," Foggy whispered back. "Because you're the most beautiful man they've ever seen."

Matt dipped his head and sidled closer. "Where are we going?"

Foggy opened the limo door and guided Matt inside. "It's a surprise."


	5. Wingfic AU

It starts with sounds that Matt can't identify. Rustling grass. Sails snapping open.

He feels the cool wind on his face in the middle of airless, stifling New York summer days, when Hell's Kitchen really earns the name, but it's a wind that blows in no smells, tumbles no garbage, and doesn't make anyone else's hair or clothing move.

It's June, after his first year at Columbia, and his hand is tucked into his best friend's sweaty elbow as they walk aimlessly around the neighbourhood they never knew they shared. Matt's tongue still tastes of raspberry ice-cream and Foggy's telling him an awful joke about an armadillo who goes to a tattoo parlour in Poughkeepsie. Matt's laughing so hard he's losing his footing and grabbing hard at Foggy's arm.

That's when he feels it. A gentle brush along his back, downy and soft as much as it's startling. He stops walking.

"Did you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"I don't know. Did someone brush past me?" Matt knows no one did. Foggy cranes his neck over their shoulders and the motion pulls their bodies together.

"Nope. There's a couple of people at your eight, a kid with a skateboard coming up on our six."

"Maybe I walked over a exhaust grate." He didn't. "So the armadillo asks for a tramp stamp, and then...?"

It takes Matt a few years to put the pattern together. He has to be near Foggy and he has to be happy. He'll feel a rush of cool air and a formless something swish past. It has no shape, no outline. Usually he's standing next to Foggy and he feels it on his shoulder. One time he's curled up on the sofa with Foggy in their coal-scuttle apartment, two-thirds drunk and nine-tenths asleep, listening to the baseball game on the television, and he feels the substanceless thing settle on him like a blanket.

He's in that fuzzy dream world between awake and asleep, but he remembers a warmth and a softness that can't be put into words, and he feels incredibly, unshakeably safe.

It stops happening all together once he puts on the mask.

After Foggy finds out about him, the two conditions required for it are so rare--closeness and happiness--that Matt basically forgets it ever happened, except for those nights when Matt's chest opens up to enfold all the pain in the world and he's gripping the sheets trying to stay tethered. Then he feels the half-remembered, half-dreamed sensation of feathers draped over him, comforting and protecting him.

They take the Castle case. He kisses Karen. Foggy gets shot. Elektra dies. He fails them all.

Foggy goes to work for Hogarth, and Matt...keeps an eye on him, as it were, tracking him from the darkness of alleyways and over the rooftops. Foggy might hate him but he's still Matt's to protect. Not even God could convince him otherwise. So when three large, armed men box Foggy against a wall next to the dry-cleaners, Matt has absolutely no moral objection to landing boots-first on the leader's head.

The other two hit the pavement before the dry-cleaned shirts finish falling from Foggy's hand.

"Jesus Fuck!" Foggy cries, and Matt's heart sings at the sound of that voice, even though it's panicked. But he shoots up a line and is gone before Foggy can say anything else--he has to, or he'll never leave at all.

He loiters on the roof as Foggy takes the pulses of his attackers and calls the police, and feels every inch of distance.

"Thanks Matt," he hears Foggy say. Not under his breath, not bitterly, but with a tiniest sliver of a smile in it. Matt's on his feet before he decides to be. He stands on the edge, watching Foggy put cinch ties--the kind you buy at the hardware store--around the wrists of the unconscious men, and smiles grimly.

Foggy looks up, and Matt's stomach seizes. After an eternity, Foggy lifts his hand in a wave. Matt's so happy he could cry. He waves back.

Then something happens. Enormous wings unfold from Foggy's back and shiver like they're shaking off rain. Matt nearly falls off the ledge. The wings are there for an instant, and then they're gone. Foggy turns away as a patrol car rolls up.

It takes Matt three weeks to summon up the courage to waylay Foggy on his walk home. He taps a stick on a trash can as Foggy walks past the mouth of an alley. When Foggy pauses, he taps it again.

Matt's slunk into a corner of the alley--for cover, he tells himself. But in truth he can't quite deal with standing toe to toe with Foggy anymore. Can't hold his chin up in front of him.

"Hi." Foggy's voice is neutral shading to genuine.

"Foggy. Why do you have wings?"

"You can see them now? You know--the way that you see things?" Foggy sounds shocked--not at the concept of having wings, but that Matt can see them.

"I did, for a second. When you waved at me."

"This changes things, I guess," Foggy scrubs at his hair and takes a deep breath. "It's just a thing that happens in my family. My aunt Jeannie has it too."

"I've met Jeannie. She didn't have--" Matt waves a hand.

"You wouldn't see them, she doesn't love you--you know what I mean. She liked you fine. But that's all."

"Foggy, what the hell." Matt's heart speeds up, partially at the implication that Foggy's feelings have something to do with Matt's perception of his wings, and partially because he's got no right to demand. He's scared if he pushes--on anything--whatever goodwill has made Foggy willing to talk to him will evaporate.

"Do you remember when you asked me out in college?" Matt does. It hadn't been a special day. They'd just been out walking after class, and Matt had pulled them up short and blurted, "Will you go on a date with me?"

Foggy'd stayed quiet for a long second and then he'd told Matt he'd started seeing someone. Matt nodded and they resumed their walk.

"Vividly. Why?"

"I ran my wings up your arms before I said no. You couldn't feel them. So I knew it wasn't right then."

"I felt it sometimes." Matt protested.

"I know. But only sometimes."

"What does it mean? That I can see them now?"

"It means that we feel the same way about each other."

"Does it mean we're in love?" Matt almost can't get the words out over the drumming of his heart.

"No, Matt, it means we're not keeping secrets. Finally. I'm still so freaking _angry_ at you, but it means that we really do know each other now."

Matt picks his way over some garbage and holds out his hand. He doesn't know why, or what he wants Foggy to do. He just reaches out. "Foggy..."

Foggy takes his hand, gripping him hard through the kevlar glove, and Foggy's wings burst into existence like a wave hitting the shore.

"Foggy." Matt shoves his cowl back and a wing tip trails down the side of his face. The noise he makes is like a sob, ecstatic and heartbroken and thankful all at once. "I can feel it, Foggy."

"Come on, we should go talk at my place. I still have a pair of your pants, I think."

Foggy's wings settle, and, with his fingers curled tight around Matt's knuckles, he leads Matt out of the alley and into the light.


	6. Princess Diaries 2 AU

Foggy looked up from his clipboard at the moaning figure draped over the opulent bed. "I'm sorry, Princess Karen, but your grandmother would take a dim view of having a member of the aristocracy 'whacked', as you say."

Karen Angel Penelope Page, heir to the throne of Genovia, rolled over, and spat through the waterfall of hair that covered her face. "But Lady Elektra lied! She hid her evil plans to take the throne, and now she's sabotaging me at every fucking turn! That's got to be treason!"

Foggy winced. "Language, please, Princess."

The princess belted a groan and slid off the bed onto the floor. "Foggy, can you stop being the royal secretary for five goddamn minutes and just be my best friend?"

Rolling his eyes, Foggy hunkered down on the floor and put an arm around the royal shoulders. "Ok. What the hell is going on with you?"

"I met her before, did you know that?" Karen sniffed. "At the ball. I didn't know who she was, but she was just--the most amazing woman I'd ever seen. So we danced. And I wasn't very princess-like in what I said."

Foggy's face was a picture of dread. "What did you say?"

"I said I wanted to take her driving through the countryside of Genovia."

"That's not so--"

"And spread her legs over the hood of the red Bentley"

Foggy sputtered. "Jesus Christ, Karen! There were reporters in attendance!"

Karen buried her head in Foggy's shoulder. "I know!" she moaned. "I didn't know who she was. 'Just Elektra', she said. I can't believe she wants my crown. I liked her so much, Foggy."

"I know, Karen. You were glowing that night." Foggy kissed her head. "I have to go back to being the royal secretary now."

"Not yet, Fogface. I want to pretend we're still in college and the only things people want from me are my colour-coded lecture notes." She clung on for another moment and sighed. "Ok. What's next?"

Foggy smoothed her hair back and picked her up off the ground. His voice was professional but his gentle touch and his face stayed that of the boy she'd met her first year on campus. "Princess Karen, you will find a wonderful spouse, you will knock that uppity Lord Stick and his daughter off their high horse, and you will see Genovia into a golden age that will last the entirety of your reign."

Karen wiped her nose. "Kay."

**

Karen stared at her hand. She was engaged, and now she wore the iceberg that sunk the Titanic on her ring finger.

Lord Matthew was handsome, and funny, and intelligent, and responded with such passion when Karen told him her plans for the country, and he smiled like the sun coming through the clouds--not that there were cloudy days in Genovia. In any other situation he'd be perfect. As a minister, or part of her council, or even just as a friend. She liked him so very much, but did she love him?

"Second thoughts?" Karen looked up. Lady Elektra was wearing dark jeans and a purple silk shirt unbuttoned so far Karen could see the lace of her bra. Entirely unsuitable for a guest at the palace, and Karen flicked her eyes away.

"No, I was just admiring it. It belonged to Lord Matthew's grandmother, you know." She flashed the ring at Elektra, and her amused eyebrow raise made Karen's blood boil.

"It's exquisite, your Highness," she smirked, but as Karen opened her mouth to yell, Elektra's sly grin turned into something soft and genuine. "It almost deserves you." For a split second, Elektra's face was defenceless, open and yearning. "Almost."

Karen jumped up. "Excuse me. I have a garden party to get ready for."

**

Lord Matthew, with a fixed smile on his face, turned to Lady Elektra's very large, but very polite date. "Mr. Castle, would you like to get a drink?"

"Dear god, yes," he rumbled.

Karen clamped her mouth shut as her fiance and Elektra's date practically sprinted away from them.

"Mr. Castle is very nice," Karen said, pretending she hadn't just been one-upping every one of his achievements with one of Matt's far superior achievements.

"He is, isn't he?" Elektra simpered "And you and Lord Matthew are so lovely together."

"Thank you."

"It's a shame you're not attracted to him."

"I know, it's--" she choked. "Wait, no. That's not what I--" But Elektra was walking off. Karen picked up her skirts and ran after her.

"You don't get to say that! I'll have you know that I'm very attracted to him. He's perfect."

Elektra spun and caught her wrist. "Is he now? Is that why you can hardly look at him?"

"I look at him the normal amount. That doesn't mean anything." Elektra stepped closer, the grip on her wrist now loose and gentle.

"You look at him. But you stare at me." Karen could feel Elektra's breath on her skin, could smell her lipstick.

"No, I don't," Karen whispered.

"You do, Princess." Elektra's eyelashes brushed Karen's cheek. "I like it. I don't want you to stop."

"You're just jealous."

"Why should I be jealous of someone who has to pretend to be in love?"

"You want to take my crown."

Elektra tucked a strand of hair behind Karen's ear, and the tip of her finger traced lightning down Karen's neck. "I'd give up my claim and all my titles just to--" Karen felt the curve of Elektra's smile, "drive through Genovia with you."

"I don't believe you," Karen breathed. Elektra looked knocked back, her brow furrowed with hurt. 

"In that case, run along before your fiance finds us together in the bushes." She dropped Karen's hand and stepped away.

Karen narrowed her eyes at Elektra's cool, closed off face, and huffed her way back to the party.

**

_Princess Karen_

_I will be leaving Genovia soon. Please, may I see you once more before I go?_

_If yes, look out your window at midnight._

_Yours,_

_Elektra_

**

"Are those my horses?" Karen hissed as she climbed down the vine outside her bedroom.

"They looked lonely. I thought I'd take them out for a spin." Elektra grinned and handed her a set of reins. "Come on, I know the perfect place."

The perfect place turned out to be an isolated thicket near the back of the palace grounds, where a blanket and a flask of coffee lay next to the trunk of a weeping willow tree.

"Elektra--I'm getting married in two days," Karen protested.

"I know. I'm not planning to stop you. I just wanted to see you before you did." Elektra took her hands and guided her under the branches. Inside the green curtain of leaves, the wintery night seemed so far away. "You'll make an excellent queen, Karen." Her eyes were shining.

Karen gave a sob and kissed her, holding her close and pouring all her frustration and longing and desire into the slick press of her tongue against Elektra's.  Her hands trembled as she clutched at Elektra's waist and stroked her hair. The kiss was explosive, too powerful for everyday life, something that could only exist in stolen moments. She pulled back with a gasp.

Elektra's smile was like the flash of a sickle in the moonlight. "Any chance Lord Matthew is polyamorous?"

Karen laughed wetly into her shoulder. "Even if he is, I can't be. And I won't sneak around, Elektra. You're no-one's mistress."

"Not a lot of people think that about me."

"A lot of people are stupid." Karen kissed her again. "Come dance with me," she said, "like we did."

"Will you whisper dirty things into my ear again?"

Karen grinned. "If my lady desires."

Elektra's sly smile fell away. "Am I?" she asked.

"Are you what?"

"Your lady."

Her face was so open and vulnerable that Karen had to wrap her up in a hug. "Yes. _Yes_ , Elektra. I have to do my duty, for Genovia, but if I'd had the choice, I wish it could have been you." Elektra's lips found Karen's, and they kissed through a taste of salt that neither of them was willing to acknowledge.

**

Karen pulled out another hairpin. This made nine, and the veil was still quite firmly stuck to her head. She probably looked like no manner of queen, sitting in the corridor in jeans and a wedding veil, watching the staff race around dealing with the fallout of her almost-wedding and coronation-for-one.

Foggy zipped by, a cellphone held to his ear and a second one in his other hand. He bent to whisper at her. "As your royal secretary I'm absolutely furious with you because I have to talk to Fox News now. Yesterday, Fox didn't even know we exist." Karen cringed. "As your best friend, I'm proud of you." He held out a fist, wrapped around a phone that was shouting, tinnily, and Karen bumped it.

Karen could see the headlines. _Tiny European Monarchy Changes Antiquated Law_. But she knew it was more likely to be _Grating Princess Jilts Lord, Makes Unladylike Powerplay_. She sighed. She wasn't worried about Matt. He'd looked so relieved when she pressed the ring into his hand. She hoped someone would make him happy one day. She was worried she'd shaken the country, just when she needed it to be steady.

Sixteen hairpins, and the veil fluttered to the floor.

"Princess." Karen looked up. Elektra stood in the doorway, wearing knee high boots and a travelling jacket. A leather rucksack sat at her feet.

Karen stood, slowly, regally. "I've been crowned, Elektra."

Elektra swallowed, and then she curtsied, as best as she could in boots. "Your Majesty," she said, eyes on the carpet.

"My lady," Karen replied, and Elektra looked up. "Elektra, my lady."

Grinning, Elektra ran down the corridor and swept Karen into a hug, and would have kissed her if Karen hadn't put a finger to her lips. "Not here. Come down to the kitchens. There's a lot of wedding cake going spare."

Elektra kissed her hand, and didn't let it go.


	7. Model AU

When the models look Foggy up and down, and side to side, and sneer, "who the hell are you?" he has the same answer every time.

"I'm the one who's gonna give you clothing two sizes too small so that you look as fat as me in front of the camera, if you don't shut your mouth."

Most of them just roll their eyes and weave their way towards makeup--the girls are all light headed from hunger and the boys wincing through dehydration headaches--leaving Foggy and his team to manage the shoot in peace.

Karen glared daggers after the latest bubble head high on her own sense of beauty. "That one's getting a safety pin right through her ass cheek," she promised. "who does she think she is, Ororo Munroe?"

Foggy curled his lip and turned back to his racks. "I've dressed Ororo. She's not even remotely mean. People just think she's stuck up because she doesn't laugh at their stupid racist jokes."

Karen's brow furrowed. "I didn't know you worked with Storm. What are you doing shooting a department store website?"

Foggy shrugged. "Couldn't take the heat." That's not the whole truth. He'd been at the top of his game dressing editorials all over Europe. All the magazines booked him. He'd styled Janet Van Dyne's runway shows for years. Labels like Swagneto and INHUMANS had him on speed dial.

But he'd thrown his weight, such as it was, behind the campaign against agencies that trapped models with exploitative contracts. And while Rogers and Romanoff and Wilson, and even poor Barnes--whose leaked contract had genuinely appalled the whole fashion world--got work with their new agencies, Foggy didn't. His style was suddenly too pedestrian for high fashion, and it was all "really, what sense of taste could you expect from a man that looks like him?"

A flashbulb startled Foggy out of memory lane. "Hey!"

The photographer, Claire Temple, grinned at him and snapped another picture. "Work it, work it..."

Foggy threw a hand up in front of the lens. "Stop wasting film!" he laughed.

Claire threw an arm around him and kissed his cheek. "It's digital and you know it. Thanks for doing this on such short notice."

Foggy hugged her back. "Milan has nothing on you. The girl's clothes are ready. Is the boy here?"

"Not yet. We've got, " the assistant handed Claire a clipboard, "product images for the website--mostly women's, then a few mens, and then at the end of the day we'll shoot the cover photos of the two of them. We won't need the boy until later."

Karen leaned in. "Elektra sassed Foggy earlier."

Claire's eyebrow rose. "I see. Perhaps we'll start with the outerwear. Go turn up the heat." Karen smirked and walked off.

"I'll tell makeup to stand by with powder," Foggy said, drily.

\--

Elektra was a very talented and co-operative model after an hour in wool layers under spotlights, and she actually thanked Foggy as he helped her wriggle into a floor length evening gown.

"There you go, princess," Foggy said, adjusting the sit of her bodice. "Now you're dressed to match your smile."

Elektra beamed, and blushed prettily. She strode back onto set, her flagging energy rejuvenated. There was a reason Foggy had been Milan's favourite stylist, and it wasn't because he gave out free cookies.

Karen whizzed past holding an armful of clothing. "The boy's out of makeup."

Foggy walked into the changing area to find the shoot's male model naked to the waist and running his hands over the clothes.

"Hi, get out of those pants too, we've got a lot of--"

The guy turned. "Hi. I'm Matt." Foggy blinked. He'd spent his whole adult life around models. He'd done Thor's speedo shoot and managed not to die of terminal erection. His tongue really should have been working right now. But jesus, _this boy_.

"Foggy Nelson. Stylist."

"Nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot of good things. Pants off, you said?" Matt had dimples. That wasn't fair. His head wasn't even going to be in frame, and he had dimples.

"Uh huh." Foggy gulped as the jeans hit the floor.

Foggy got Matt onto Claire's set in his first outfit--a pair of navy trousers and a fitted grey t-shirt that shone blue in the light. Foggy had the twelve other tees and tanks Matt had to model draped over his arm.

Matt shot beautifully, but product modelling was little more than being a coat hanger with a head. Still, his arms did wonderful things to to the shirts and the shots of the trousers should probably be considered false advertising because no one would fill out the ass quite the same.

"Ok, get him in the seasonal stuff," Claire called. Several assistants--and Elektra, lounging off to the side--groaned.

"What's wrong with seasonal?" Matt asked, stuffing himself into skinny, stonewashed jeans. Foggy looked away.

"Buddy, I almost don't want to tell you." Foggy handed him a t-shirt from the label's weirdly experimental summer line.

Matts face creased into a frown as the hem fluttered over his thighs. He ran his fingers over his stomach. "Is this mesh?"

"Be thankful you can't see it. I have no idea what Johnny Blaze is doing this season." Matt's fingers were rubbing the fabric in a distracted rhythm, and Foggy had to admit that while questionable in design, the mesh panel did frame Matt's belly button adorably. Foggy shoved his hand into his pocket to keep from touching.

"Here's your cane," he said briskly. "Get back on set and I'll be right out."

Seeing Matt in strange t-shirt after strange t-shirt gave Foggy's intelligence a little time to move back into his head, but then they shot the swimwear.

"Wow, these are really tiny," Matt laughed, edging out from behind the curtain.

"Uhm." Then Foggy's professionalism kicked in. "Wait. You're crooked."

Matt put his arms out, trustingly. "Then adjust me." His grin was shit-eating, and Foggy rolled his eyes.

He stepped up close, hooked his fingers into the waistband and nudged it one inch to the right, so that the drawstring lined up with the valley that ran down the centre of Matt's six-pack. "There. All done."

Matt bit his lip, his colour rising.

"Off you go."

Matt nodded, a little dazed, and turned away.

\--

"Tailoring next, Foggy! Elektra, get touched up and put the red gown back on for the cover shoot." Claire ordered.

In the changing area, Foggy steeled his nerve and pushed a pair of underwear into Matt's grip. "These first. They'll keep you...where you need to be kept."

Matt took them with a smile. "It's ok, Foggy, this isn't my first shoot." He dropped his pants mid-sentence.

Foggy whirled around. Why did Matt keep doing that?

When he turned back, Matt was in a pair of dark grey trousers with a deep purple pinstripe, and a blush pink dress shirt which flapped open and framed his chest. He was stuffing the tails into the trousers haphazardly.

"Stop! Christ. You're wrinkling it!" From behind his glasses, Matt gave him the most devastating puppy eyes. "Fine."

Foggy reached for the buttons at Matt's sternum, and worked his way up, trying not to touch Matt's skin. Then he adjusted the shoulders and flipped up the collar to receive a tie. He went back to the buttons and closed the shirt over Matt's stomach, pulling a little to see how much he'd have to pin in the back. None. Matt fit the shirt perfectly.

"You wanna do the rest?" Foggy asked, suddenly realizing how close he was standing.

Matt shook his head. "Go on."

Foggy kept his eyes on Matt's face as he thumbed open the button and eased down the zipper. With the flat of his hand, he swept the shirt into Matt's trousers, first the back, then the sides. Foggy stepped behind Matt and tucked the shirt into the front, smoothing the tails down with long strokes of his palm.

"Foggy," Matt whined, touching his arms. He was hardening against Foggy's fingers. "Please."

"This is a professional shoot, Matt. Keep it where it needs to be kept." He zipped up the trousers with a loud sound.

He helped Matt into a fuchsia tie and a waistcoat that matched the trousers, and then a slim, three button jacket. He looked impossibly tall, and absolutely edible.

"Jeez. Tailoring _really_ likes you." Foggy remarked, taking in the pink of Matt's cheeks that was brought out by the bright tie.

Matt picked up his cane and laid the end of it against Foggy's calves, trapping him in place as Matt leaned in. "And I really like it," he purred, and wrapped his arm around Foggy's waist. "Is tailoring interested in having a drink with me tonight?"

"If it's not, I am," Foggy said, sweeping his knuckles over the lapel of Matt's jacket.

Matt grinned. "That's a much better plan. I've had bad luck dating the dry-clean only."

"That' s not a problem. I'm hand washable." Foggy's face flamed when he realized what he'd said.

"I look forward to it," Matt said. "doing laundry that is."

Foggy burst out laughing. "You were doing so well, up until that point." He touched Matt's jaw and kissed him lightly, barely touching lips for fear of smudging his makeup. "Get out there and smile for the camera. I'll be here when you're done."

Matt tilted his head, and god, he was too good for websites photos. Foggy wanted him in the Italian sunlight, barefoot and wearing a shirt the colour of the sky. "Promise?" Matt asked.

"Promise. Who else is going to get you out of that suit?"


End file.
